MHA Rewrite: Plus Ultra

The changing room hums with nervous energy. Lockers clang open and shut, fabric rustles, voices overlap in low bursts of bravado. Izuku opens his locker and sets his bag inside. He removes the watch carefully, thumb brushing once across the worn glass before placing it on the upper shelf. Shirt, pants, folded beside it. He shuts the locker halfway and begins to change. The U.A. gym uniform is utilitarian. Dark navy track jacket with white piping down the sleeves, the school crest stitched cleanly over the chest. Matching athletic pants, tapered at the ankle. Flexible fabric. Reinforced seams. Built for impact and movement. No flair. Just purpose. He zips it up and rolls his shoulders once. Across from him, Iida is already dressed. One leg rests on the bench as he fastens a sleek metallic apparatus around his calf. The device is streamlined, segmented near the joint, with compact vents aligned along the back. Reinforced propulsion. Stabilization. Mobility-based Quirk. Speed specialist. Iida tightens the final clasp and lowers his leg, testing his balance with a small shift of weight. A sudden bang erupts beside Izuku. Metal rattles violently. Bakugo’s fist is pressed against the locker door next to him, knuckles whitening. His jaw is tight, eyes burning. “Support class is down the hall, Deku. What are you doing here?” Izuku closes his own locker gently. The soft click of the latch feels almost deliberate. “Taking the entrance exam, Kacchan.” Bakugo takes an immediate step forward. “Don’t screw around. You think playing hero once lets you be here?” Izuku tilts his head slightly. A small smile curves his mouth. “Well, at least you admit I saved you.” For a split second, silence. Bakugo’s grin turns sharp. Wolfish. Sparks crackle in his palm, tiny detonations snapping against his skin. Izuku shifts his stance automatically. Weight centered. Eyes steady. He’s ready. “Excuse me.” The word cuts cleanly through the tension. Both of them turn. Iida stands upright, hands at his sides, posture immaculate. “Is there a problem?” he asks evenly. “None of your business, Four-Eyes.” “Hostility prior to an examination is inefficient,” Iida replies without missing a beat. His chin lifts a fraction. “I suggest conserving your energy.” He isn’t loud. He isn’t emotional. He’s looking down on Bakugo. “Whatever,” he mutters. “Have fun embarrassing yourself, Deku.” He turns sharply, shoulder-checking past Iida on his way out. The door slams hard enough to rattle the lockers. The room exhales. A boy with yellow hair and a black streak raises a brow, thumb jerking toward the door. “What’s his deal?” Half-red, half-white hair doesn’t even glance over. He adjusts his sleeve and walks out without comment. Izuku exhales once. He looks at Iida. “Thanks.” Iida adjusts his glasses. “No thanks necessary. We may be competitors, but disorder serves none of us.” Izuku hums lightly. “I concur...” He kneels to tie his shoes, double-knotting them carefully. After a moment, Iida asks, “Who was that?” Izuku replies, “My childhood friend.” Iida stills. “…I suggest you select better friends henceforth.” Izuku glances up at him, one brow raised. “Like you?” For the first time, Iida smiles. Not polite. Not rehearsed. Genuine. “I would be honored to have you call me your friend,” he says. “I see no reason we cannot maintain a cordial rapport, whether or not we become classmates.” Izuku stiffens. Then blinks. “Really…?” Iida raises a brow. “Is there a problem?” Izuku studies Iida’s expression. Not a hint of deceit.  Then, Izuku smiles back, smaller but real. “…No. No problem… And yeah, sounds good… Iida-kun.” Iida nods once, satisfied. “Shall we depart, Deku-kun?” Izuku scratches the back of his head lightly. “Ah… just ‘Deku’ is probably fine.” Iida inclines his head. “Very well. Deku.” They step toward the exit. … Battle Center B. The doors slide open and the examinees file into a wide holding chamber. High ceilings. Reinforced walls. Smooth concrete floors. Too pristine to be the battlefield. Izuku slows, scanning the space. No debris. No targets. He frowns. “We’re doing our exam here?” Beside him, Iida rotates his shoulders, then stretches his calf with controlled precision. “Unlikely. We will obviously be relocated.” Izuku nods once and begins stretching as well. His eyes drift across the room. Clusters of students. Some joking loudly. Some dead silent. Some already bouncing in place. Gear stands out. Reinforced gauntlets. Carbon-plated shin guards. Custom harnesses with embedded canisters. High-end materials. Professional craftsmanship. Others look homemade. Rough welds. Budget fabric. Improvised stitching. Quality varies. Background varies. He purses his lips. A lot of them probably just want the money. Prestige. Agency contracts. Sponsorships. The spotlight. He flexes his fingers once. That’s fine. He’s not here for that. Across the room— Ochako. She stretches her arms overhead, expression set and focused. Determined. He shifts instinctively, about to walk over— A hand rests lightly on his shoulder. He looks up at Iida. “Uraraka-san appears to be attempting to concentrate,” Iida says evenly. Izuku blinks. Uraraka-san…? Oh. That’s her name. It sounds light. Cute. He glances across the room. She’s stretching quietly, jaw set in focus. Izuku looks back at Iida. That’s… surprisingly considerate. For someone who declared everyone here a competitor. Iida doesn’t seem aware of the contradiction. He simply adjusts his glasses, posture straight as ever. A small smile tugs at the corner of Izuku’s mouth. So he’s fair after all. “…Right,” Izuku says. He stays where he is. There will be time later. For now— Focus. Izuku steadies his breathing. Ten minutes. Limited output. At best, two bursts. At worst… one. There won’t be time to experiment with control mid-fight. So he won’t. Efficiency first. The obvious path will draw the obvious crowd. He shouldn’t follow it. Find an overlooked route. Funnel targets. Line them up. One clean strike through multiple bots. Minimize strain. Maximize return. He flexes his fingers once— “GET SET! GO!” The ground shudders. Steel groans. The walls split apart with a thunderous mechanical crash. Light floods in. Izuku’s eyes widen slightly. Buildings. Roadways. Smoke drifting between structures. An entire artificial city revealed in an instant. “What?!” “It’s like a city!” “They have more than one of these at the school?!” Before he can turn— A burst of sound erupts beside him. Iida rockets forward, engines flaring from his calves, body already leaning into acceleration. No hesitation. Some examinees freeze. Others sprint. “Well?!” Present Mic’s voice detonates overhead. “Run, run! There are no countdowns in real fights! The die has been cast!” The hesitation snaps. The crowd surges. Bodies rush past him. Boots pound against pavement. Someone shouts. An engine roars to life. The air fills with noise and motion all at once. Izuku doesn’t move. Not because he’s thinking. Because he doesn’t know where to start. Too many directions. Too many people. Too loud. His chest tightens. Move.  He doesn’t. Someone bumps his shoulder as they sprint past. He’s going to fall behind. Then- Ochako. She’s already running, jaw set, eyes forward. Not perfectly graceful. Not flawless. Just moving. She didn’t wait to feel ready. She just went. Izuku inhales sharply. Right. No more standing. He pushes off the ground and runs. Not straight down the main road. Left. Side street. His plan snaps back into place as his legs pick up speed. Line them up. Make it count. … High above the artificial city, behind reinforced glass and rows of monitors, the faculty watches. Multiple screens flicker with live feeds from across the testing grounds. Explosions bloom in one quadrant. On one screen, Bakugo blasts through a three-point bot, smoke curling around him as he launches himself forward without slowing. On another screen, ice explodes outward from a half-red, half-white-haired examinee, locking multiple bots in place before cracking them apart. Elsewhere, a bird-headed examinee cleaves through metal with dark, sweeping force. Numbers climb beside their names. Points accumulating fast. “Ah! Look at that power!” the principal chirps, paws folded in front of him as he leans toward one of the screens. “Such promising youth!” All Might stands behind the control panel, massive arms crossed over his chest. His smile is broad. Heroic. Unshakeable. But he isn’t watching the explosions. His gaze is fixed on a different monitor.  Midoriya.  Running down a side street. No points yet. No flashy display. Just movement. “It seems that particular examinee has caught your attention, All Might-san!” the principal says brightly. “Is that a boy we should all be looking out for?” All Might doesn’t answer immediately. On screen, Izuku turns sharply into a narrower alleyway, eyes scanning, breath controlled but not calm. Inexperienced. But thinking. All Might’s grin doesn’t falter. “…Perhaps so!” he laughs, the sound booming through the room. Aizawa stands near the back wall, arms crossed, expression flat. His eyes flick from the monitor to All Might. Watching. … Three minutes. Rough estimate. Too long. Izuku slows in a quieter stretch of the district. No explosions. No other examinees. Zero points. He’s behind. A mechanical whir echoes between buildings. A villain bot rolls around the corner. Compact. Steel-plated. A glowing number flashes across its display. One-point. The bot locks onto him. “I-I-I’ll k-k-k-k-kill you!” it stutters. “Filter,” it adds suddenly, voice smoothing unnaturally. Izuku’s pulse spikes. This is it. Now or never. He shifts into a stance instinctively. Left foot forward. Fist drawn back. All Might’s pose. Commitment. The bot advances. Okay. How? Punch? No. Too much force. He’ll destroy his arm. Redirect it? Condense it? Channel it— The bot accelerates. Too close. His breathing fractures. He snaps his hand forward, thumb pressed to index finger, his other hand bracing his arm like a rifle. A flick. Focus. Feel it. Through muscle. Through bone. Out the fingertips. The bot barrels toward him. Nothing happens. His vision narrows. I can’t!— He drops the stance, instinct taking over as he prepares to dodge— A beam of searing light slices past him. The bot detonates in a spray of twisted metal. Izuku staggers back. A boy steps into view, hand still extended, belt gleaming in the light. Blond hair swept back. Smile radiant. “Merci for the distraction, mon ami!” he calls. “You were très élégant.” He pivots smoothly. “We make an excellent team… but alas! I suspect our paths will not cross again!” A dramatic flourish of his hand. “Adieu!” He vanishes down the street. Smoke curls upward where the bot once stood. Izuku stands alone. Zero points. No. One point. Not his. His hand trembles. He lowers it slowly. He didn’t miscalculate. He didn’t lack power. He hesitated. …He froze. Izuku frowns. No. Don’t think. Thinking caused hesitation. Just move. Trust your body. He pivots and sprints deeper into the district, shoes striking pavement hard. Just do. But even as he runs, his mind won’t shut up. What if it happens again? What if nothing comes out? What if— “Six minutes and two seconds remaining!” Present Mic’s voice booms overhead. Too loud. Too real. Don’t panic. He turns a corner— Metal carcasses litter the street. Limbs torn free. Smoke rising. Too late. He looks up. Ochako. She jumps, fingertips brushing a two-point bot mid-air. She lands in a crouch. The machine rises, weightless, several meters into the air. Gravity quirk. Her face tightens with strain. “Release!” The bot drops. Gravity snaps back into place. It crashes into the pavement with crushing force, metal joints crumpling under its own weight. She staggers, catching herself before she falls. Breathing hard. But she moves again. Another target. No hesitation. Across the intersection— A blur of motion. Iida rockets forward, engines roaring from his calves. He pivots sharply and drives a kick straight through a bot’s torso, metal caving under the impact. He lands roughly, slightly off-balance this time. Disheveled. Sweat darkening his collar. But still moving. Izuku’s jaw tightens. They’re tired. But they’re scoring. He scans the area. Destroyed units everywhere. The number of active bots is dropping fast. Too fast. He’s running out of targets. Running out of time. And he still hasn’t landed a single hit. Izuku looks at the remains of a villain bot. He steps toward a ruined bot, crouching. The chassis is cracked open. Wiring exposed. One arm torn clean off. He grips it. Heavy. Still intact at the joint. The end of it resembles a blunt cannon casing. Solid. Reinforced. He straightens slowly, testing the weight in his hand. It’ll do. A distant explosion rattles the street. Izuku turns toward the sound. He freezes. “…Bigger than I expected.” …  High above the testing grounds, the monitoring room hums with quiet focus. Rows of screens flicker with live feeds from across the artificial city. Nezu smiles pleasantly, paws resting on his chair.  “In this practical exam, the examinees have not been informed of the number of villains, nor their locations.” On one screen, a broad-shouldered student stands alone at a quiet intersection. His head is large and jagged, shaped like rough stone. Small, gentle eyes peer from beneath the rocky overhang of his brow. A small blue bird flutters down into his cupped hands. He lowers his head as it chirps. He listens. Then he nods once. The bird takes flight. He turns without hesitation and lumbers down a narrow side street. Moments later, a villain bot rolls into view. “They must gather information,” Nezu continues softly, “and understand the situation before anyone else.” Another screen. A girl with a high ponytail crouches behind cover, eyes steady as she observes the street below. Her gaze tracks patrol routes, timing the intervals between passing bots. She closes her eyes briefly. Her arm glows. From her palm, a small cylindrical device forms — compact, precise. She places it at the corner of an intersection. Then retreats. Two bots roll into position. Click. A contained explosion detonates beneath them, joints snapping cleanly as they collapse in unison. She closes her eyes and exhales softly. “Mobility that can be used in many different circumstances…” Another monitor shows a boy launching himself between buildings with strips of tape, swinging fluidly as he redirects a bot into a wall. “Discernment. The capacity to remain calm in any situation.” On one screen, a frog-like girl stands in an alley as a villain bot advances toward her. A metallic whir sounds behind her. Another bot closes in. She’s about to be trapped. She doesn’t flinch. She crouches. Springs. Her body arcs upward as the bots collide beneath her. In midair, her tongue lashes out, wrapping around both machines at once. She lands lightly on a nearby wall. A sharp pull. A twist. Metal crumples as the bots slam together and collapse. She blinks once. “And pure combat ability.” On another screen, smoke erupts down an avenue. Bakugo launches himself forward with a thunderous blast, propelling his body through the air. He twists mid-flight— BOOM. A three-point bot detonates beneath him. He lands already turning. Another explosion. Then another. Metal fragments rain down around him. His grin is sharp. Wolfish. Focused. He doesn’t chase targets. He hunts them. A bot lunges from behind. Without looking, he fires a concentrated blast backward, shredding its chassis. Numbers spike beside his name. He doesn’t slow. He looks alive. “These fundamental skills required to preserve peace in the streets… are converted into points in this examination.” All Might stands with arms crossed, golden gaze steady. But his screen is different. Midoriya. The camera feed shows him kneeling beside the twisted remains of a villain bot. Smoke curls from shattered plating. He grips a torn mechanical arm and wrenches it free. Improvised. Desperate. Still at zero. All Might’s smile does not waver.  But his eyes sharpen. Nezu’s smile widens almost imperceptibly. “But their true test…” he says softly, “…is still yet to come.” He presses a button. Deep within the artificial city, something massive shifts. The ground trembles. A distant explosion rolls through the skyline. … Izuku stands frozen in the street, the salvaged metal arm hanging uselessly at his side. The ground trembles. A shadow stretches across the buildings. He looks up. The Zero-Pointer towers above the skyline. Massive. Each step sends shockwaves through concrete. Buildings fracture under its weight, windows shattering as it moves. It doesn’t attack. It doesn’t aim. It simply advances. “What the hell?!” “Isn’t that way too big?!” Examinees scatter. Some sprint. Some scream. Some freeze. Izuku clenches his jaw, fingers tightening around the scrap weapon. Worth zero points. His gaze tracks the machine’s massive frame. Dammit… This would’ve been perfect. All that surface area. All that mass. The perfect target to release everything into.  But zero points. “Less than two minutes!” Present Mic’s voice booms overhead. Izuku exhales sharply. I can’t stay here. He takes a step back. Retreat. Find straggler bots. Salvage something while everyone’s scrambling. He turns— “Agh!” The sound cuts through everything. He spins. Uraraka. She’s on the ground, leg pinned beneath a slab of fallen concrete. Dust clings to her hair. She struggles to push it off, teeth clenched. The Zero-Pointer looms closer. Izuku doesn’t think. The scrap metal clatters from his hand. He runs. Behind him, high above— All Might’s smile widens. Izuku runs, eyes darting to the approaching machine. Too close. No time. He shifts his weight. One For All floods into his legs. The pavement cracks beneath his feet as he launches upward, clearing Uraraka in a single bound. The air rushes past him. For a split second— The sludge villain. Bakugo screaming. The Winged Kid suspended midair. That same feeling. He channels the power into his arm. Veins stand out along his skin. Muscles strain. His sleeve rips. He draws back his fist. And roars— “SMAAAAASH!” His fist collides with the Zero-Pointer’s head. For a fraction of a second— Nothing. Then— CRACK. Fractures explode across the faceplate and race down the machine’s frame. The sound is deep, structural — metal shrieking as the force tears through it. The Zero-Pointer staggers. Its massive body tilts. Then the entire machine collapses, smashing into buildings as it falls. Concrete bursts into dust. The impact shakes the district. “ONE MINUTE LEFT!” Present Mic shouts. Izuku is already falling. The power drains from him all at once. His right arm dangles uselessly. His legs scream. Broken. He twists midair. Too slow. Too high. Think. If he times it— He draws back his uninjured arm. It will break. But that’s better than breaking everything. Time it… Time it… It’s too close!— Uraraka reaches him midair. Her palm smacks against his face. Soft. Warm. Weightless. Uraraka lands, swaying. “Ugh… Ngh… Release…!” Gravity returns. He drops the remaining distance. His back hits the pavement hard. Air explodes from his lungs. Izuku blinks. Uraraka collapses onto her knees, trembling from overuse. “Ngh… Bleeegh—!” Warm liquid splatters across his face. Izuku continues staring at the sky, still stunned. He tries to move. His body disobeys. “…Just… one point…” “TIME’S UP! EVERYONE, GOOD JOB! THE SHOOOOOOOOW’S OVER!!!”  Present Mic’s voice booms overhead. Izuku’s eyes widen faintly. Show’s… over?  He faints with his eyes open. “What was that guy thinking?! He just jumped at it!” “Was that a reinforcement-type Quirk? His arm blew up when he hit it!” “No, that wasn’t normal reinforcement… Did you see the shockwave?” “He wasn’t even scoring before that, was he?” “I didn’t see him take down a single bot…” “He came out of nowhere.” “Yeah, but… he destroyed that thing.” “…He didn’t get any points for it, though.” “Still. That was insane.” “Total waste…” Iida watches in silence. “No,” he thinks. “They are missing the point.” His jaw tightens. That wasn’t recklessness. That wasn’t strategy. That was instinct. He replays it. No pause. No calculation. No glance at the scoreboard. He simply moved. “To save Uraraka-san… he did not hesitate for even a millisecond.” Iida’s hand curls into a fist at his side. And in that same instant— The memory returns. The Zero-Pointer emerging. Uraraka pinned. His own decision. Retreat. Logical. Rational. Cold. …Selfish. “…Of course, if this were not an examination, I would have done the same.” The justification forms automatically. Then— He freezes. Would I? The question lands harder than the machine’s collapse. He examines the memory again. There had been time. A window. Small. But real. And he chose— Points. “…Wait.” His breath stills. “Of course…” The realization sharpens. A small, elderly woman in a nurse’s outfit walks onto the field, cane tapping lightly against the pavement. “Well now,” she says mildly, looking over the scattered students. “You children certainly made a mess.” She reaches into a pouch at her side and pulls out a handful of colorful gummies. “Here. One each. Chew it properly.” An examinee takes one with shaking fingers. “T-thank you…” “Mm.” She nods. “You’ll be fine.” She moves down the line, handing them out one by one. “Yes, you too. Don’t rush off. Let it work.” Another student bows awkwardly. “Thanks.” She gives a small, satisfied hum. “That’s better.” Aoyama appears beside Iida, cape catching imaginary light. “Fufu… that mademoiselle is the backbone of U.A.” He gestures grandly. “U.A. High’s licensed school nurse… the Youthful Heroine, Recovery Girl!”  Recovery Girl’s cane tap pauses as she spots them. “Oh my…” Izuku lies still, head resting in Uraraka’s lap, eyes closed. Dust streaks his face. The worst of the vomit has been wiped away, Uraraka’s sleeve damp where she’d cleaned him. Recovery Girl approaches and kneels beside them. She gently lifts Izuku’s broken arm. It bends at an unnatural angle, swelling already rising beneath torn fabric. His fingers are stiff, faintly discolored from internal trauma. His legs lie awkwardly, knees slightly twisted, the muscles along his calves trembling even in unconsciousness. She exhales softly. “Poor boy… you did this to yourself?” she murmurs sympathetically. It’s as if his body isn’t used to his Quirk at all. Uraraka leans forward anxiously. “Will he be okay? He did that for my sake…” Recovery Girl gives her a knowing look, lips curving faintly. “My, my. Girls do have a habit of admiring reckless, heroic boys.” She tilts her head. “You don’t mind if I kiss your boyfriend, do you, sweetie?” Uraraka’s face ignites. “W-what?! He’s not my boyfriend!” Recovery Girl chuckles softly. “Mm-hm. Of course he isn’t.” She leans down and presses a small, gentle kiss to Izuku’s forehead. A faint warmth spreads from the point of contact. Nearby, Aoyama watches, eyes glittering. “Her Quirk is the super-activation of the body’s healing ability,” he declares dramatically. “U.A. can only conduct such a reckless examination because of her.” The swelling in Izuku’s arm recedes. The crooked angle straightens. Muscles in his legs visibly relax as tension melts away. Bones settle back into alignment with soft, muted pops beneath the skin. Color returns to his fingers. Recovery Girl pulls back. “There. Good as new.” She places a gummy in Uraraka’s hand. “For you too, dearie. Healing works best when you’re not wobbling.” Uraraka smiles in relief, clutching it carefully. “Thank you!” Iida observes quietly. “…Deku.” He adjusts his glasses, lenses catching the fading light. “You have passed,” he declares. Aoyama turns toward him, brows lifting in confusion. “…Comment?”